Willie shot at him a curious glance. “What for d’ye want the tuppence? Ha’e ye been bettin’ on horses?”
For a moment Macgregor was tempted to plead guilty of that or any other crime on the chance of gaining the other’s sympathies and pence. Instead, however, he answered with caution: “I’ll maybe tell ye, if ye’ll len’ me the tuppence.”
Willie laughed. “I’m no’ sae green. Ye best get yer fayther to gi’e ye the money.”
“Clay up!” snapped Macgregor, and remained silent for the rest of the journey.
Had the money been required for any other object in the world, Macgregor would probably have gone straightway to his father and frankly asked for it. But the limits of confidence between son and parent are reached when the subject is a girl. Nevertheless, it was to the boy’s credit that he never dreamed of attempting to obtain his father’s help under false pretences.
That night he came to the dismal decision to deliver the package himself at Jessie Mary’s door, at an hour when Jessie Mary would be certain to be out. There was nothing else for it, as far as he could see just then.
The following morning’s light found him at his work—no longer, alas! in the far west-end with its windfall of pennies for the car, but in the heart of the city. The man under whom he worked found him so slow and stupid that he threatened to report him to his employer. Altogether it was a dreary day, and Macgregor, who usually paid enough attention to his duties to escape the burden of time, was more than glad when the last working hour had dragged to its close.
He went home by an unaccustomed though not entirely unfamiliar route. It led him past the shop wherein he had made the birthday purchases on Saturday afternoon. The window was more brightly illuminated than the majority of its neighbours; the garish contents were even more attractive than in daylight. Macgregor found himself regarding them with a half-hearted interest. Presently he noticed that one of the sliding glass panels at the back of the window was open a few inches. This aperture permitted him to see the following: A hand writing a letter on a sloping desk, a long plait of fair hair over a scarlet shoulder, and a youthful profile with an expression very much in earnest yet cheerful withal.
Macgregor could not help watching the writer, and he continued to do so for several minutes with increasingly lively interest. He was even wondering to whom the letter might be written, when the writer, having dipped her pen too deeply, made a horrid, big blot. She frowned and for an instant put out her tongue. Then, having regarded the blot for a space with a thoughtful gaze, she seized the pen and with a few deft touches transformed the blot into the semblance of a black beetle. Whereupon she smiled with such transparent delight that Macgregor smiled also.
“What are ye grinnin’ at?” said a voice at his elbow.